Starvation Diet

A couple of years ago, the then senior female officer in the department (that's before she was unceremoniously "volunteered" for early retirement) came over to my corner of the office and proceeded to ask my neighbour about her many and various health problems. After listening to all I could stand (I mean, there is only so much I want to know about someone's gastro-intestinal difficulties) I politely asked if their conversation might not be more appropriately conducted in Senior Female Officer's cubbyhole?

Senior Female Officer: "Oh, she doesn't mind".
Me: "But I do".

I am unbelievably familiar with the lives of my co-workers. It's like watching a public sector version of TOWIE playing out in front of me on a daily basis. I know about their families, marital rows, their health, their financial difficulties - everything. This process is assisted by the many and frequent telephone conversations they conduct in the open office - Ex-Army Man engaging in lengthy discussions about his car (undergoing diagnostics and mounting up ever-increasing bills), Politician's Daughter organising her child's birthday party, Remora screeching loud plans for the evening in her desperate efforts to persuade all and sundry she is a mad social butterfly. I am surrounded by people suffering from verbal incontinence and absolutely NO boundaries.

I wouldn't care - but all these conversations are conducted using the office telephone system. Which means that I am in the uniquely fortunate position of seeing at first hand what my Council Tax is being spent on ! Lucky old me.

Some years ago I made the mistake of getting too friendly with a female co-worker - Remora, to be specific. I thereby learned the hard way never again to commit such a grievous error of judgement. But of course, one is repeatedly lulled into a false sense of security; and lets slip little snippets of information. What one did at the weekend, where one is going on holiday, who one thinks should win "Strictly Come Dancing". Inoffensive and innocent this information may seem - until one watches it being filtered through the warped brains of some of my colleagues.

As a result I have completely stopped telling anyone anything - even the people I like (and despite my recent disillusioning experiences, many decent people do still inhabit my working environment). Why? Well, it amuses me to deprive those hungry for Things to Bitch About of a single crumb of sustenance. Because - unbelievably and most bizarrely - it would appear that the most trivial incidents are considered Fair Game for a hurried exchange of emails between the Jackals. And - unable to help themselves - they cannot resist frequent little barbs aimed in my direction (barbs which, naturally, I feign not to register!).

I go for lunch with Senior Male Colleague from another department = I am having an affair.
I get summoned into New Boss's office = I am being given special treatment.
I go on holiday = I must have been given a raise.

But now - I represent utterly barren landscape. Total drought. My watering hole is all dried up. Just a few vestigial puddles linger; the rest has become cracked earth and encrusted mud....

With luck it won't be too long before the Jackals head off to seek new prey elsewhere . They ain't gonna feed off my carcass for another second.